


The Sharpie Trick

by Andersaur



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Play, PWP, Pens in places they shouldn't be, Prostate Massage, Sherlock's a hilarious little shit, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 21:00:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3355112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andersaur/pseuds/Andersaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A randy, teenage John is looking for something to spice up his newly lonely sex life. According to some questionable sources on the internet, there's one classic tip that works every time: the felt tip.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sharpie Trick

John Watson was seventeen years old. Very recently, he'd gone from getting regular sex a few times a week to getting no sex at all for two weeks – thanks for that, Christine – so could he really be blamed for his Google search on how to get the best out of masturbation?

He'd already scoured this search half a dozen times before, as was evident by the amount of purple on the page, which indicated the links that had already been viewed. Only an average of two links on each page were left blue, and those were the ones he'd seen referencing anal stimulation. He didn't think he was quite ready to stick his finger up his own bum just yet, thanks very much.

_Can I have Christine's number? SH_

John’s reply to the text was immediate. _No. JW_

_I won't do anything. SH_

_Then why do you want it? JW_

_You've been agitated recently. Thought I could convince her to give you some sex. SH_

_Give me some sex. JW_

_I didn't think you liked men. SH_

_I was making fun of you, you dick. JW_

_As I said. Agitated. SH_

John sighed and put his phone aside, staring hard at a forum link titled _Best Test For Prostate Stimulation Massage!!_

Well. It was just a test. What harm could it do?

He clicked.

_hi Guys!! im 14 n a boy n i love love LOVE things in the ass_

John smacked himself on the forehead. The second-hand embarrassment he was feeling for this boy was immense. The post was from two years ago; he wondered if the poster ever thought about this dumb thing he'd put online when he was probably only twelve or thirteen. What were these kids even doing sticking things up there, anyway? He huffed and started reading again, skimming down to the actual meat of the forum post.

_anyway so yeah . i saw this somewhere online that told me this n i tried it n yeah . use a sharpie marker pen n put it up their because it feels like a finger but firmer so not to big but a good test to see if u like that kinda thing . plus keep that finger clean from all that nasty stuff in that place ;))_

John thought about it. Sharpies were sort of phallic in shape at the end, he supposed. At both ends, really. He looked up from his laptop and across his bedroom, his eye catching on the dark blue Sharpie pen sticking out of his pen pot. He bit the inside of his bottom lip, his left eye narrowing in thought as he considered it. The boy had been right, it didn’t _look_ too big. And it was already smooth enough, he supposed. Easily wiped clean, too. He went back to his laptop and did a swift search of ‘sharpie up the bum’ just to check it was alright. There were a lot of results about the advisability of object insertion, and lots of tips about disinfecting, and several links for places to buy things that would feel “much more realistic” than a pen, but, seriously, he wasn’t about to go and buy himself a bloody false dick when he didn’t even fancy real ones.

He looked back up at the pen and then, before he could change his mind, went and snatched it from his desk. While he was up, he double-checked that his door was locked. Harry bursting in on him with a pen stuck up his arse was pretty much his worst-case scenario right now – possibly even worse than if it were his dad, because his dad probably wouldn’t go and tell everyone at his school.

He got back to his bed and plucked his lube from the drawer in his bedside table, keeping the pen and the little tube in hand as he refined his search for amateur ways to do this sort of thing.

Only once he was actually watching a ‘medical’ video of finding the prostate did he really understand what he was about to do. He was literally having impure thoughts over a marker pen. His year eight form tutor had given several stern talks on what the Lord thought of people who had impure ideas about others. He wondered what she’d think of him then, sitting there on his bed, so horny he was about to shove a bloody pen up there.

In a fit of anxiety, he grabbed his phone and sent a message to Sherlock, in search of some celibate vibes to cure his urges.

_You got the answers for that Chemistry paper? JW_

There. Nice and casual. Nothing weird going on there. It was all fine. When Sherlock didn’t reply in the whole five seconds he waited, John put his laptop on the floor and took his trousers and pants off. He pulled his covers up and over him as a sort of shield as he closed his eyes and tried to clear his head.

He started with Christine. Sure, she was his ex now, but she’d had a nice body and they’d had some good rounds together. Yeah, Christine. Christine and her long, messy hair, so suitable for running his fingers through, grabbing, pulling, with her head down near his lap. Her hair that was such a dark brown it was almost black, creating the tiny shadow of a snail trail that lead him down her front and to the well-groomed patch of hair between her legs. And, while he was thinking about her front: boobs. Nice, soft boobs. Big enough to comfortably fill his hands, not so big as to look fake.

His phone vibrated so hard on the edge of his bedside table that it fell onto the floor, and, with a quiet growl, he reached down with his clean hand to unlock it. Text from Sherlock. _Not now_ , he thought fiercely, and, because he knew what Sherlock was like when he didn’t reply, he turned his phone off before tossing it back onto the floor.

Right, Christine. Christine… Pubes, boobs, all that jazz. He remembered now.

He tried not to think about what he was doing as, under the covers, he spilled some lube into his palm and rolled the end of the pen in it. He was keeping the cap end out – the clip that could hold the pen to paper or a pocket seemed too sharp for his liking – and he held onto it with a determined grip as he lifted his knees to his front and moved his hand down. To try and save the cool plastic touching his cheeks, he put his sticky hand down, too, to try and spread them a little.

He had to admit it, by the time he’d actually lined the pen up in the right place, he wasn’t so hard anymore. Christine had been drowned out by the pen pressing into him, and he cringed majorly as the little tip made its way in. It had looked a lot smaller than it felt. From the small bit of reading he’d been doing, he thought that maybe he had to try a bit harder, and he kept his eyes closed as he pressed it in a bit further. So far it just felt cold and hard, and he didn’t understand the few people that found this enjoyable. He pressed it in a bit further, and, although it must only have been an inch deep, it felt like this was not a place where things were supposed to go in as much as it was a place where things were supposed to come out.

He held the pen in place, but his second hand went back to his cock, stroking gently as he tried, again, to picture Christine. She could be pleasuring herself, he decided, and he watched, in his head, as she combed one hand into the roots of her dark locks and slid the other down between her legs. He imagined her fingers sliding easily between the lips of her pussy, saw them glistening all over because he wanted them to— and then he reached down and started inching the pen in and out, slowly, in time with the long strokes he was giving himself.

For a long time, any orgasm he might have achieved through his cock alone was being washed away by the fact that he had a plastic stick up his arse. Eventually, he gave up.

And then, as the gently pointed tip slid past the smooth lump it had been held against, John felt an odd thrumming sensation. He paused for a moment, evaluating it, and then tentatively pushed the pen in again, causing the same warm sensation. With renewed vigour, he started at it again, this time keeping the pen shallow and directing it up towards his cock so it rubbed over that special spot again and again. He pulled his cock so that his hand slid over the head at the same time the pen ran over his prostate, and the combination was definitely getting to be something spectacular.

In his head, Christine’s dark hair had halved in length, and then halved again, and suddenly, as she ran that same hand through her hair, over and over, it was so short that the curls were beginning to ruffle up, stick out at all angles, and her other hand was doing something strange, too. John’s mind seemed to have linked to his body as, instead of the small rubbing motions it was making before, her hand was moving up and outwards in time with his and, yeah, now that he thought about it, there was a cock there, long and shining, standing proud between two slightly protruding hip bones.

Her face flashed up in John’s mind again, now, the pen causing his prostate to pulse an extremely hot and sluggish pleasure through his bottom half as his hand worked his cock tighter, faster, but her face didn’t seem to be her face anymore. It was more like… well, it was more like Sherlock’s face, really. Short, dark hair, sharp features. Mouth open in an explicit ‘O’ shape as he jerked himself. John could almost feel that hand on his own cock, pumping as his did, and they were jacking off together and John could feel Sherlock’s cock in his hand, now, was pulling Sherlock, and then his head twisted things again and Sherlock ( _Christine, Christine, Christine!_ ) was on top of him, and they were bouncing in time with each other, and Sherlock’s cock was in him, and going faster, and harder, and, _shit_ —

The pen lid came off in John’s hand. He opened his eyes and rolled them all around his room as he blinked in confusion. Eventually, though it was hard to grasp with shaking hands and ragged breath, he realised what had happened and why the pen seemed to have halved in size. Swearing under his breath, he reached down and tried to slide the pen lid back on. Not being able to see between his legs proved a major issue when, because of the utter lack of depth perception, he ended up drawing a long blue line all down the inside of his forearm. He swore again and drew back, reaching in one more time. This time, he got several spots over the sides of his hand. Frustrations running high, he let go of his cock, reaching down so he could pluck the pen from his backside and reattach the lid where his eyes could see it. He was sure he could feel his face heat past the normal level for arousal and into the territory for shame as he flopped back onto his bed and relaxed for a second.

This really was ridiculous. The whole situation was absurd – not just the one at hand (literally) but the one in his head. He could see her properly, now. Christine, that was. She was right there. And yet, once he’d slid the pen back into place and started at it again, her face altered subtly until it once more resembled Sherlock’s. John, too distracted by the wonderful heat vibrating right to his fingertips from his arse, couldn’t be bothered to work too hard on pushing the dial back over to Christine. Instead, he let his mind run with it. It was working, after all.

Things got surprisingly easy once he’d settled on Sherlock’s body. It became much more enjoyable to think of Sherlock hovering over him, holding him, rocking their bodies together. He could imagine how warm he’d feel, and then, once he’d worked himself back up properly, how warm his arse would feel with Sherlock’s hips slamming harder, faster into him. Soft grunts had started inching their way up his throat, and, sure, there was an ache in both arms from the constant movements they’d been making, but he was _so close_. He tried to imagine Sherlock more vividly, and think of what, specifically, it would look like from someone else’s point of view, or what, specifically, his cock would look like as he touched it.

He was shaking all over. His entire body had little shivers running through it with every fourth rub the pen’s end made against his prostate, and he could feel the intense heat running through his veins, pricking the hairs of the nape of his neck to stand on end. With a deep, breathy moan, he finally started moving his left hand as fast as he could manage on his cock, and rubbing the flat of his pen more slowly and directly, and suddenly, in his head, Sherlock was slamming his hips in one final time and crying out, in a porn-worthy moan, his climax. John followed right behind, his own orgasm pulling right from his arse where it pulsed and twitched around the pen, and shooting all down his tensed limbs and tightened fingers. His eyes clenched shut, and yet his vision seemed to white out with the intense heat rushing through his body. A stray spot of warm semen slipped down his chin and dribbled onto his neck.

He allowed himself a few minutes to calm down. Every muscle was rippling with tensed pleasure and his mouth was dry from heaving all of those breaths. By the time he’d worked up the strength to reach around and grab a tissue, his spunk had gone cold and sticky against his skin, and he wiped it away with a grunt. Then he did the rest of himself and, eventually, realised he’d have to go and get a wet flannel.

Twenty minutes later, he was back in his bedroom with all of his clothes on and fetching his phone from the floor. He turned it on and was instantly barrelled with text messages.

_That was due in last week. SH_

_Yes, I have them. I’ll email them. SH_

_Did you get them? SH_

_What’s wrong with you? SH_

_Alright, what did I do? SH_

_I’m getting bored of this now. SH_

_John? SH_

_Are you masturbating? SH_

_Phone’s off, then. SH_

_Why did you ask me for the answers if you were masturbating? SH_

_If you ARE masturbating, perhaps I should say. SH_

_Well. I hope it’s a good one, for all the time it’s taking. SH_

_Joooooooooooooooooooooohn. SH_

_John. SH_

_JOHN. SH_

_Really? Still? SH_

_I hope your penis hasn’t fallen off. SH_

_Actually, it’s more likely that it’ll have jerked off. SH_

_Ha. SH_

_Come on, you have to be done by now. You haven’t had nearly enough sex to last this long. SH_

_You’ve had this much sex? SH_

_That girl must have loved you. SH_

_Look, I’m even talking about sex. Where are you? SH_

John groaned out a little whimper as he scrolled through twenty messages, the last three more arriving as he was still reading. He hammered out a reply with his teeth clamped together.

_Fuck off! I turned my phone off to do the paper, alright? JW_

_Then why is it on again already? SH_

John growled, tempted to turn it off again, but, instead, took a deep breath and forced out a casual reply.

_Goodnight, Sherlock. JW_

_I bet you’ll sleep well. SH_

_Twat. JW_

 

* * *

 

In the end, it was Chemistry that let him down – which, John supposed, shouldn’t have surprised him. He and Sherlock were sat copying notes from a textbook. There was the healthy hubbub of life and gentle chatter around the lab as they worked, but John was very conscientious of not saying anything. Sherlock tended to bite the heads off those who attempted to make small talk while he was trying to finish his work. Today, though, it was he that spoke first.

“Didn’t know you were into that kind of thing,” he muttered, right by John’s ear.

“Hm?”

Sherlock swapped his pen to his left hand, freeing his right. With it, he took John’s left, pen still in hand, and turned it over so that the inside of his wrist was facing the ceiling. John stared at it for a second and then looked back up at Sherlock. He shook his head, baffled.

“Look at the other one,” Sherlock instructed simply, nodding his head across the table.

John followed, turning his other hand over and looking at his right forearm. More specifically, the jagged lines of blue pen down his right forearm. “What?”

“The pen.”

“Yes? It’s just pen.” He lifted a fingertip to his mouth, licked it quickly, and started rubbing half-heartedly at a few of the lines. It didn’t cover the pink rising to his cheeks.

Sherlock leaned closer. “ _Sharpie_ ,” he whispered.

John looked at him again, a wary frown on his face. His eyes narrowed. “Yes.”

Sherlock’s hand crept across the desk to trace a few of the spots on the side of John’s hand. “Not drawn by your dominant hand. You don’t have any young relatives.” His eyes rose, teasingly slowly, to meet John’s. There was a hint of a threat about his face. “Not drawn by any hands, I suspect.”

“Drawn by a clumsy arm leaning on an open pen,” John said swiftly, turning his arm back over. He picked his pen up and tried to get back to work.

Sherlock snorted and turned back to his papers.

Their companionable silence returned for a moment.

“Hey. John.” Sherlock nudged his arm.

John ignored him and turned away slightly.

“ _John_.” Sherlock nudged him harder, shoving his writing arm away to dig his elbow into his ribs.

“Jesus, Sherlock!” John hissed. “I was _writing_! What do you want?”

“Not like you were writing anything useful. Just look at this.” Sherlock pushed his book towards John, indicating the little peace symbol he’d doodled on the edge of his work. A long line going down, and two splayed on either side of it. It was a peace symbol in every way other than the lack of a circle around the outside of it.

John shrugged. “What?”

“Guess what it is.” Sherlock’s eyes were burning with excitement.

John glared at him. “I don’t know.”

“You didn’t even look.”

“I’m not going to look. I’m going to do my work.”

Sherlock leaned over and drew a diagonal line across John’s page. “There. None of your work is valid anymore. Now, look at what I drew.”

“Sherlock!” John growled, smacking his arm. He dropped his face into his hands and breathed for a few seconds, and then relented. “Right. Fine.”

Sherlock waited eagerly, almost bouncing on his stool, as John’s eyes skimmed the black lines on the page. John sighed.

“I really don’t know, Sherlock.”

“Yes, you do. You’ve seen it before, I promise.”

John sighed again, and shrugged again. “It’s a peace symbol.”

“No, it’s not, it’s a headless you with a pen up your—”

“Sherlock!” John cried, smacking him on the shoulder, and this time with much more force.

“Ow!” Sherlock shrieked. He lifted his hands to defend himself, a proud grin still lighting his face.

John smacked him again, this time smartly on the back of the head. “You little _prick_!”

“John!” Mr Collins barked. A strong hand grabbed his wrist and pulled it from Sherlock’s vicinity. “What on _Earth_ do you think you’re doing?”

John floundered, sputtering for an excuse. He turned and jabbed his pen at his paper. “Sherlock scribbled all over my work.”

“So you beat him,” Mr Collins confirmed. He narrowed one eye.

“It… it’s very good work,” John said weakly, his hand going lax in the grip.

“It’s alright, Sir,” Sherlock piped up, having smoothed his hair and shirt back into place. “He didn’t hurt me. And I _did_ draw a line through his work.”

“What for?” the teacher demanded, dropping John’s hand.

“John was working faster than me,” he ground out through gritted teeth. John’s glare remained icy, even as Sherlock worked through the painful statement. “I was…” He cleared his throat. “I was jealous.”

“Well, perhaps if you spent more time concentrating on your own work rather than sabotaging everyone else’s, you’d catch up faster.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Do your work.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And, John, if I see you acting out like that again, I’ll make you pack up and leave. I don’t care how old you are; if you act like a child, I’ll treat you like a child. Understand?”

“Yes, Sir.” John nodded and hunched over his book. “Sorry, Sir.”

Mr Collins returned to his desk. The bell rang, and John packed up without bothering to put his things away properly. He put his arm on the edge of the desk, held his bag open below it, and swept everything over the edge. Then, swinging his bag over his shoulder with one swift movement, he was gone. Sherlock didn’t see him for the rest of the morning.

Of course, no such luck would follow him all day.

Come lunchtime, he was making out with Christine again around the back of the bike sheds. Sure, they weren’t getting back together, but she was interested in some action, and he was interested in solidifying her face in his mind as opposed to Sherlock’s.

“John.”

Christine jumped back, wiping her mouth. She fixed her shirt. “Shit.”

“Oh, fuck,” John breathed, tipping his forehead against the wall. “Sorry. He follows me everywhere. Sort of like a shit guard dog, really.”

She smiled impatiently. “I’ll text you.”

With that, she slipped away, strutting past Sherlock. John watched her go, his eyes flicking from her back to Sherlock’s front.

“No, we don’t,” Sherlock muttered as he approached. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit up, offering it to John.

“Don’t what?” John replied sulkily. He shook his head.

“Suit yourself,” Sherlock muttered, and he put the fag back to his lips. “We don’t look alike. Well, I suppose we have some similar attributes, but her hair is both far thicker than mine and four times longer. Though, we’ve already established that you need glasses, so maybe we do look similar to you.”

“Fuck off,” John said, elbowing him. “I don’t need glasses. I wasn’t thinking that you look like twins. Just normal things, like height, hair… Yeah. Like height and hair.”

Sherlock blew out a warm plume of smoke. “It seems your body is a step ahead of your brain.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

When Sherlock didn’t reply, John turned to look at him. As soon as he did he was being kissed again – and, surprisingly, it was a very similar experience to the kissing he’d been doing before.

Of course, Christine hadn’t tasted like smoke, but she probably would have, had she been Sherlock.

John sagged, his eyes fluttering closed, as soon as he felt Sherlock’s lips against his own. There was a neutral hand holding his waist, and he settled his own over it, squeezing the fingers gently in his. Along with the rest of him, his lips relaxed, opening slightly, and Sherlock was there instantly to lick stripes over his lips and trace paths just along the insides.

When he finally broke away for breath, John tipped his forehead down to rest it on his shoulder. “I see,” he croaked. He saw another cloud of smoke float away into the wind above his head.

“Yes.” Sherlock buried his nose in John’s hair, breathing him in. “I hope I didn’t spring this on you too soon. I’ve been waiting for you to realise on your own for a month, but you didn’t seem to be getting anywhere.”

“I got somewhere last night,” John replied, lifting his head. He swallowed, another blush tinging the apples of his cheeks.

Sherlock grinned, chuckling. “Why a Sharpie marker?”

“Curious,” John mumbled, eyes sliding away. “I just… I was looking online. Someone mentioned it. It was just… I had one right in front of me. I dunno.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and took another small drag of his cigarette. “Works better with a finger.”

John’s eyes widened. He glanced at Sherlock and then turned to stare at the wall behind his head. “Oh.”

“Yes.”

“Well. I didn’t want to go about… doing that. With my finger.” John squirmed.

Sherlock smiled. “I wouldn’t mind.”

“What?”

“Doing it with my finger.”

John coughed.

“For you, I mean.”

“I know what you mean.”

“Good. Because I wouldn’t.”

John nodded. “Yes, you said that already.”

There was a pause. Sherlock puffed a stream of smoke into John’s face, and John coughed, waving it away, before giving Sherlock another smack.

“Would you let me, then?”

John squirmed on the spot again, and scratched his head. “I guess so.”

Sherlock laughed softly. He leaned in and pecked John’s lips, sparkling eyes meeting his. “It’ll be fun, I promise.”

John snorted. “You make everything fun.”

“I know.” Sherlock smirked. “You have to break up with Christine properly, though.”

“We’re not even together.”

“That why she was trying to get your hand down her trousers?”

John hit him again. “We’re not together.”

“Alright, then. I do have a second condition.”

“What’s that?”

“No pens.” Sherlock glanced down at him. “Agreed?”

John laughed, squeezing his hand again. “Agreed.”


End file.
